


some walls need to be torn down

by amuk



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Budding Love, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:27:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21978064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amuk/pseuds/amuk
Summary: Bruce had never been good at letting down his walls, at letting others in. Even for Clark. Especially for Clark.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 9
Kudos: 220
Collections: Superbat Exchange Winter 2019





	some walls need to be torn down

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: Time travel, where Bruce goes to another universe to meet Clark and the Bruce of that world comes to their world to see Clark, last minute confessions, dying but not dying
> 
> For the superbat exchange! Unfortunately, my giftee dropped out, but I had already finished my piece so this is now for the community in general. 😊 Hope you enjoy!

i.

“How’s Friday?” Clark asked, flipping through his planner. Red circles, scribbled in appointments, and stickers decorate every month. His finger tapped on one of the few empty dates. “I’m technically on assignment, but I can always hop back for the night.”

“How old school of you.” Bruce pinched the planner between his fingers, dangling it in front of him. “You have a phone.”

“It’s easier when I can write it out.” Frowning, Clark swiped the planner back. He smoothened the page, clearing any wrinkles. Unfortunately, it didn’t do much good; there was a permanent crease where Bruce had gripped it too hard. “Damn. You’re lucky the year’s almost over.”

“Or what?” Bruce asked dryly, taking a sip from his coffee. He never understood Clark’s preferences for diners, but at least this one had a decent coffee. Leaning back on his seat, he observed the restaurant from their booth. The breakfast crowd was here, a strange mix of truckers and businessmen hurrying to work.

And of course, one journalist, who was still pouting over his agenda. Clark sighed mournfully. “Maybe I should tell Dick to pick on you.” He glared at Bruce grumpily, tapping on the Friday insistently with his pen. “So. Friday?”

Obliging, Bruce pulled out his phone and checked his own schedule. Friday, Friday, Friday—he had a single meeting in the morning, and the rest of the afternoon was clear. Thank goodness for Lucius Fox, he really knew how to minimize his “CEO and Playboy Bruce” appearances. “I should be fine.”

“Great.” Clark beamed, pure sunshine. “It’s a date.”

ii.

There was a familiar prick on his back, the sense that someone was watching him, and Batman pulled out his batarang. Tense, he crouched slightly. It couldn’t be another thug—he had cleared out most of Black Mask’s men from the warehouse. Whatever ones he hadn’t caught would be running away. Then who—

A cape swished behind him and he relaxed. Of course. Superman. Standing straight, Batman turned around. His own cape curled around his legs and he crossed his arms. “Superman.”

There was no responding smile, no exasperated sigh, and the hair on his neck stood up. Superman scanned the surroundings as he slowly floated down. His lips were a flat line, his tone distant. “I caught the runaways.”

“Then that clears up everything.” Feeling uneasy, Batman dropped his arms to his side and took a step forward. In the dark, it was hard to see Superman’s face, to see the ridges and planes he knew intimately. “Are you angry?”

Superman’s feet touched the ground with a quiet thud. Stiffly, he bit out. “Yes.”

It’d been a while since he’d seen him this angry, even longer since it’d been directed at him. “I couldn’t ignore—”

“I’m not asking you to ignore criminals or the bat signal or whatever case you’re on,” Superman growled, his jaw tight. “That’s what we do. But this isn’t the first time you’ve blown me off. Or the second or the third—you do this more often than we actually go on a date.”

Even though he knew Superman wouldn’t talk like this if there was anyone around, he instinctively checked their surroundings for any interlopers. Coolly, he answered, “It was a time sensitive matter.”

“They’re all time-sensitive matters. It always is,” Superman bit out bitterly, shaking his head. “But we’re not alone. Nightwing, Robin, Oracle, Batgirl—any of them could step in for a single night. They do it already for each other.”

He looked away, unable to refute the point. Feebly, he argued, “I had to handle this myself.”

“We can’t keep doing this,” Superman said, his voice oddly soft. He started to float again, slowly rising up to the hole he’d made in the warehouse ceiling. The moonlight hit his face and all Batman could see was the weariness on his face. “Even after all this time, you still won’t let me in. And I…I don’t know how much longer I can wait.”

iii.

That was not his ceiling. No, that wasn’t completely accurate. To be precise, it was more that something felt off about his ceiling. Like there was an extra dent in it or the paint was more chipped than it should have been. Even his bed felt strange, too soft to be his. Lying still on the bed, Bruce kept his breathing steady, listening for any intruders. There were no strange sounds or, even more worrying, the usual ones. By this point of day, Alfred would have had breakfast ready.

Quietly, he slipped off his bed, his feet landing on a layer of dust. Bruce stared at the hardwood floor, then at the tables and dressers around him. Everything was covered in a thick grey and he had a sinking feeling this wasn’t a prank by Dick or Stephanie. No, something was wrong here.

Without a second thought, he crept out of his bedroom. At the very least, his batcave should still be untouched and maybe he could find out something more there. The rest of the mansion was coated in dust, looking unused, and Bruce fought the urge to shiver. It looked abandoned. Forgotten. Even the old grandfather clock looked like it had seen better days. His fingers were sticky as he typed in the usual password and suddenly, a shrill alarm rang.

Immediately, he took a step backward, his body crouching as he scanned his living room. No one swooped out of the shadows, running to see who had broken in. He’d have to find a place to hide, to observe—

Glass twinkled behind him as a large object burst through the bay windows. Turning around, Bruce shielded his eyes as he took in the attack, a bright red and blue blur that hurtled at him. Wait, red and blue? He knew that colour, knew that ‘S’. “Clark?”

“Bruce?” Superman halted in front of him, his eyes wide in surprise. “You…you’re alive?”

Alive? Well, he had been right then. That wasn’t his ceiling.

iv.

“Here, have a cup of tea. You still like two milks, right?” Clark smiled awkwardly, setting down a fragile teacup on the coaster in front of Bruce. Dressed in overalls in his family farmhouse, Clark looked more like a farmer getting ready to milk a cow than a reporter chasing a news story. Then again, maybe that was the case here. The only thing to indicate that he wasn’t purely a country boy was the gold necklace that disappeared under his collar.

“Yes.” It seemed that at least he shared the same tastes as this world’s Bruce. Scanning the room, Bruce noted pictures of Ma and Pa Kent, of Conner and Kara Zor-el. It seemed this world wasn’t too different then. Except of course, one notable exception. “I take it I’m dead?”

“Uh…” Clark rubbed the back of his neck. His lanky frame was too big for the couch, his knees bent uncomfortably. The furniture here hadn’t changed at all from the last time Bruce had visited the Kents. “Yes.” He paused. “Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, is it?” Bruce asked, picking up the tea. He had always known he’d die from his duties. It didn’t make it easier to hear, even if it was just in a different universe. “You don’t need to apologize.”

“Yes but…” Clark frowned, running a hand through his shaggy hair. Now that Bruce was looking at it, it was peppered with white and grey hairs, a Clark that was much older than his. A Clark he might never get to see ordinarily. They’d never really confirmed if he’d age normally, if he’d live forever. “I’m sorry all the same.”

“Always with the saviour complex.”

Clark blinked, before breaking into a hearty guffaw. Not remembering restraint (as usual), he wrapped an arm around Bruce’s back, squeezing him tight. “And you’re still a prissy cat.”

v.

“Luckily for you, the league’s still active.” Puffing his chest proudly, he pointed at one of the more recent photos, showing him with grown-up Conner and Kara. Their costumes had changed, Kara’s more battle-oriented, Conner’s less casual, and they were all grinning as they stood in front of the Justice Hall. A newly rebuilt Justice Hall. “We’ll find out soon enough if it was magic or science that brought you here. Or something else entirely—I feel like we keep finding things that go beyond everything we know. Guess it’s one of nature’s miracles.”

Bruce didn’t want to think about how many times they must have built, destroyed, and rebuilt that place. The iterations of the league’s hall. “The new generation took over?”

“Yeah. Especially some of the kids from the Justice Society. Us old-timers are taking over what Jay and Alan started there.” Clark smiled fondly as he held up a photo of him surrounded by a gaggle of masked teens. Some were easy to pick out—Liam Harper, Wally’s kids—others less so.

And with the bittersweet tinge in Clark’s expression, Bruce knew better than to ask what had happened to Jay and Alan. “So even you retired?”

“Even I retired,” Clark chuckled. “Though I can’t help myself if something happens nearby.”

“No, that’s you.” Bruce scanned the other photos, the changes in his companions. Older Hal. A kingly Arthur. Diana, still going strong. And more, beyond that, and there was something reassuring about the idea that even after he was gone, the work still continued. To find a picture of Cassandra as Batman, of Dick and Damian still patrolling together, of Stephanie refusing to give up her purple abomination.

A picture of him and Clark, sitting awkwardly next to one another. Clark grinning brightly in the camera as he snapped the selfie, this world’s Bruce trying not to smile and failing miserably at it. Another, of Bruce with a pair of champagne glasses. More and more lined the wall, it was impossible not to see them now that he’d noticed the first one. They almost seemed to glow, dragging his eyes from one to the next. A first year anniversary. A surprise dinner. A relationship that was much further than anything Bruce had at home.

The pictures suddenly stopped and he stared at the last one, of them sitting by a river, watching the sunset. Did he die after that? Involuntarily, Bruce asked, “What happened?”

“To what?” Clark approached him from beyond and Bruce could hear as his breathing shallowed, as his breath hitched.

“Us,” Bruce answered bluntly, the only way he knew how.

“Oh.” Clark stepped back, sitting down on the couch once more. He interlaced his hands, resting his chin on his knuckles. “No wonder you felt so familiar.” He smiled sadly as he looked up at Bruce. “You’re also in love.”

“I wouldn’t use that word,” Bruce corrected reflexively.

“You don’t have to be so defensive.” Clark lowered his eyes. His foot scuffed the floor. “You’re only hurting your Clark, you know.”

“Like I hurt you?”

“No, like my Bruce hurt me.” Clark closed his eyes, curling into himself even more. Again, Bruce couldn’t see his face. Again, Bruce wished he could make out his expression. “Like I hurt him. He couldn’t open up and I was tired of trying and…and then he died, before anything happened. Before anything _could_ happen. No apologies, no understanding, just nothing.”

Bruce stepped closer, his hand hovering over Clark’s back. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” Sitting up straight, Clark pulled out the chain around his neck. On the other end was a plain silver band. “I was going to propose, you know. Thought I’d finally surprise him for once. I wonder what he would have looked like.”

There was really only one answer to that. He squeezed Clark’s shoulder. “Happy.”

vi.

A woman stood in front of him, her hair black as night, and Bruce could have sworn it was Zatanna. Except, it was her granddaughter, and there was something both happy and sad about that knowledge. Catching his stare, she clicked her tongue and rapped his head. “Close your eyes. It’s bad enough you’ve seen what you have, can’t have you finding out more.”

“Your grandfather, was he—”

“No guesses either!” The woman growled.

Clark chuckled. “He’s probably right. He always is.”

“Yeah, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of confirming it.” The woman snorted indignantly. “Alternate world or not, we’re similar enough that we could be his future. And it’s dangerous to know the future.” She rested her palms on the side of his head. “Sometimes you can make it happen.”

_Knowledge could prevent terrible futures,_ Bruce wanted to point out, but the magic in her hands washed over him, lulling him to sleep. He drowned in drowsiness, his eyes getting heavier and heavier, and the last thing he saw was Clark, was his wedding band on his finger. The silver glinted once, twice, and then all he saw was pitch black.

vii.

This was his ceiling. Bruce stared at the pock-marked ceiling, the burn mark from one of Damian’s surprise training sessions. His bed was the right level of firmness. There was no dust anywhere in the room and through the vents he could hear Alfred humming, the scent of coffee wafting in the air.

He was back. Immediately, he rolled over and picked up his cell, tapping the third speed-dial number. All Bruce would see was that Clark’s sad smile, the apology that lingered in the air unspoken.

And maybe that was their world’s future and maybe it was just a similar alternate world, but either way, he couldn’t let that happen here. Now.

“Clark? We need to talk.”


End file.
